


Dust to Dust

by MJ_Magpie



Category: BioShock Infinite, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Fallout 4, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Crossover, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-10-29 20:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17815352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MJ_Magpie/pseuds/MJ_Magpie
Summary: Booker DeWitt awakes from his death into an unsettling forest full of unknown threats, and there strikes a bargain with three mysterious strangers who promise to bring him to safety. But in a land suspended between life and death, a land full of the easily swayed hearts of unjudged souls, safety is only an illusion.





	1. He remembers drowning

He remembers drowning. Her hands (again, again, and _again_ ) upon his throat. She didn’t need to squeeze to choke him; the river water would do well enough; it would do what it had to. He remembers his lungs burning in protest as they filled with fitful liquid and he remembers her face (again, again, and _again_ ) through the ripples that were steadily dismorphing by the gulps of air that escaped him. 

And. Booker DeWitt is fairly sure he remembers dying. At least, he’s fairly certain. It somehow feels like time has skipped and suddenly he’s back in the ruthlessly cold water, deeper down than the water that would sit at roughly hip height. Booker is struck for a moment because no one, _no one_ is around and that feels so viscerally wrong. With a spinning head he twists, finding the unsettling freedom to move as his body flounders for a split second.

Then he finds the surface by the softest gleam of silver and pushes himself upwards, some deep rooted instinct telling him that this is not the time to die.

( _Again?_ ) 

It’s pure stubbornness that gets him to the riverbank, coughing up water with every strangled paddle. The exhausted man collapses on the bed of unkind prickling pebbles, panting as the space around him slowly comes into focus. 

Everything is so grey. The shades of the trees with their leaves and needles all muted, the sky smothered in unsettling restless clouds. Not a single sound emanates from the surrounding forest and Booker feels the unease settle upon him like a familiar cloak.

No rest for the wicked, or something like that. 

He wanders for days. Booker knows enough to survive most hostile situations by training or experience, if he isn’t possessed by some self destructive whim for a liquor binge or cheap thrills. Here, in the grossly unfriendly wilds, he knows well enough to mark the trees where he’s been. He waits patiently to see the sun but a perpetual colorless twilight seems to hang forever across the forest. With no dawn or dusk to navigate by, the stubbornly surviving man still ought to be able to track his movement to some extent.

But it’s as if the trees _move_. Or heal their bark. Reluctantly he returns to the ominous river and attempts to navigate by it, but before much progress is made, the devious liquid snake begins to twist and twine unexpectedly. Impassable rapids and threateningly deep waters break up the unpredictable path, making it all to easy to get turned around.

It isn’t long after that the fog comes out to play. Thick oppressive blankets of oddly dim mist smother everything in sudden unwilling blindness, and it is then that Booker hears the sounds of the creatures that had laid dormant and unseen. They are too close, and they are _hungry_ , and Booker has a sneaking suspicion it would be more pleasant to die from al bullet to the head than meet an end by whatever is making those ghastly noises.

A rare stroke of luck has him stumble upon a single abandoned house huddled hidden in the overbearing trees. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust and decay has gotten its claws into this and that, but overall, the place is not unlivable. In fact, Booker had lived in far worse. Anywear with a door, four walls and a ceiling would do well enough for shelter from whatever lurked in the trees, but this place has a moth eaten bed and a perfectly breakable locked liquor cabinet, making it the most hospitable place Booker has crossed so far.

At least if something jumps him in his sleep, he’ll have had the pleasure of getting good and hammered one last time. While he damn near kills himself ( _again?_ ) with alcohol poisoning and passes out upon the faintly granular sheets, he is unaware of the fog receding and the devastating threat fading along with it. 

It’s a roar that wakes him by the splitting of his headache, and the hail of gunshots that drive nails into his skull. 

_Others_. Booker had almost stopped expecting to find anyone, but now, does he trust the unknown well enough to go flying towards it? It’s a question that bares serious, stern consideration. A subtle dread lurks in his gut though the grizzled DeWitt refuses to admit it, more than ready to shrug off the unease as a byproduct of the nearby sounds of violence.

Should he follow the lure, will he find friend, or foe? Considering his luck, it seems quite the audacious gamble… 

And with his thoughts trained just so, the wary veteran begins to stalk suspiciously towards the sounds of conflict and combat. 

\---

The ground shakes and the smell of gunfire cuts between the trees, and it’s all familiar in the worst possible way. Self medication is his fallback for that pesky PTSD, but he’s also accustomed to simply gritting his teeth through it. Another rapid roar shakes the air like an explosion as the rattled, grizzled man spots the shapes of bodies moving between the trees. 

People, more than likely. Friendly? Still too soon to tell. Too many men and women had shot at Booker in his mere 40 years for him to be anything but distrusting. 

“I gotta get under it!” he barely catches the rasping words through the weave of the trees. There’s a resounding crack as something heavy hits a series of hefty trunks and they all split in half by the sheer physical force.

“One of you assholes wanna give me a distraction already?” the same voice calls with a slightly unsettling amount of ease. The cautious veteran moves quietly from the shelter of one piece of cover to another. Thick ancient trees and jagged juts of grey and black stone conceal him as he moves closer to the conflict.

And then he sees it.

A monsterous scaly beast with massive deadly claws and a lengthy muscled tail. It’s easily 10 feet tall and its roar stains the air with the stink of rotting meat. From his spot of stealthy observation, Booker spies a man in a red tattered coat, dodging around the mutated monstrosity’s lashing strikes and pelting it with repeated blasts from his shotgun. 

Then, from some hidden point elsewhere in the concealing brush, a quieted shot lances through the air and buries itself in the beast’s beady red eye. A tiny localized inferno scorches upon impact of the shot and suddenly the mutant lizard’s left eye is burned to an ashen crisp. Grimly, the wary DeWitt reflects that a sniper needs considerable skill to shoot through a tangle of trees, but it does not comfort him to imagine such a person’s aim trained upon him. 

The raging ravenous replite swings itself around towards the direction of the blinding shot, and its tail cuts another row of bystanding trees in half. Booker’s cover is suddenly harshly compromised and he’s forced to make a hasty dodge to the left. It shakes him out of cover, but also clears his view to the reckless man with the shotgun. He unloads several rounds into the creature’s horned head, and somehow manages to get out from under its hind feet without being stepped on or clawed to death. 

“Outta ammo!” he bellows to someone else hidden hidden amidst the dreary cover. How many of them are there, Booker wonders? The stakes start to raise as he realizes the danger that could trap him from any side. Exactly how outnumbered is he? Unable to shake his pessimism, Booker remains uneasily settled. He could help, he’s aware of the option. He’s got a scavenged gun and an arsenal of powerful plasmids, but he’s also aware sticking his neck out has a tendency to backfire. Still, it doesn’t sit well with him to do absolutely nothing. 

Suddenly another form emmerages from betwixt the twisting trunks; an absurdly tiny woman with choppy blonde hair, also dressed in blazing blood red. She appears to toss some kind of bottle at the beast and as it shatters, ice climbs wickedly up the creature’s tail, freezing it, for the moment, to the ground. 

“Make with the stab-ity stabbing, Footpenis! We’re outta buckshot!” 

Booker has seen a lot in his time, so as bizarre as this display it, he spends only a few moments in processing. He’s gotten this far by rolling with the punches and not asking undue questions. Giant monster lizards and blizzards in bottles are hardly a hop, skip, and a jump from the reality that Booker knew in life. 

“Fine; gettin’ up close and personal is my speciality, anyway,” Booker recognizes the blood lust ingrained into the stranger’s tone; the thrill and hunger that mercifully fills the space that had once only been horror and regret. He knows it all too well. 

The man in the red coat charges forward with reckless abandon, taking a knife from some unseen pocket and sliding on his side, low beneath the beast’s vulnerable belly. 

Far be it from Booker to take his eyes off this madness for a moment; survival instinct finally prompts him to move once more, and he means to slide the rest of the way behind a girthy ancient tree trunk, when a flash like a flurry of blue jays catches his war wary eyes. 

And there she is. The girl in the blue dress. The grown woman that was once the baby he sold. His daughter.

Elizabeth. 

His lungs may as well be full of water now for all the breath he dares draw. The space around him slowly bleeds out until all there is, is Booker, the darkness, and her. The distrusting DeWitt knows better than to believe his senses; deep down he knows something is wrong, but those thoughts are far away and numbed out as he gazes towards the petite young woman with eyes too tired and haunted for her mere nineteen years. 

It’s like his body is moving on its own; slow jerking motions carry him forward like he’s not entirely in control of his limbs. She’s saying something; murmuring inside her somber shroud as she stares sadly across the blackness between them. The words come to him little by little, but in pieces and from all sides; sometimes, he could swear, from inside his own head. 

“...it didn’t matter.” His mind finally pieces together the distortion, and a cold knife of dread plunges through his chest. He already knows what she’s talking about. And suddenly, her slim musician’s hands are dripping in rich scarlet and the white of her corset is shattered by a vicious bloody spatter. 

“What you did for me; it didn’t matter at all,” the mysterious figure whispers, and suddenly Booker can’t look away from the bloody white tresses clutched in her soiled hands. The space between them feels so narrow now, so when she tosses Comstock’s severed head across the small divide, it lands with a wet thud at Booker’s feet. He feels a cold sweat sting his skin and his grip on himself slips little by little.

“This… isn’t real,” he finds his voice heavy and tangled at the bottom of his throat. “This can’t be real.”

She’s standing in front of him now; close enough that the eerily silent wind sweeps her skirt tails against Booker’s ridgid legs. He can’t move, and when she peers at him with those pretty baby blues there’s blood on her face too; ruby rivets caressing the curve of her cheek and the slope of her throat. 

“It’s all your fault,” he hears her voice inside his head even though her lips remain still. Her damp bloody hands settle delicately on either side of his face and she leans inwards, dropping her voice to a suddenly sinister whisper. 

“And you will be punished, Booker. That’s why you’re here.” 

\---

The gravelly earth takes its chance to bite his legs whilst the ghoul went sliding beneath the belly of the beast. His blade cuts into the precisely correct plate and glides through with the ease of a hot knife through butter. The deathclaw’s guttural roar is suddenly cleaved to a halt and John Hancock should probably not feel so pleased with himself whilst covered in this much fresh blood. He narrowly avoids getting crushed by the sudden deadweight of the corpse, but manages to roll aside at the last possible moment before the huge scaly monstrosity finally hits the ground. 

“Jesus,” he mutters breathlessly, “couldn’t make it easy could ya?”

“Eeeeewwww!” comes a shout from the side. Entirely obsidian eyes flick furtively towards the voice, where a tiny elven woman stands with disgust just as apparent in her posture and expression as her voice. “Now you’re a bloody burnt up zombie-- you’re making it worse!”

“Oh come on, that was the money shot,” Hancock chuckles as he saunters around the deceased deathclaw, inspecting it casually. “What am I supposed to do? You got a tissue or somethin’?”

Surely the pretty surly elf had some snide reply-- but she drops it like an unwanted toy that suddenly bores her. 

“F.P, Frog Boy, eyes up. Think we got a stray over there.”

The first thing that occurs to Hancock when he spots the stranger is that he’s pretty damn easy on the eyes. The second thought concerns how it probably ain’t natural for his eyes to be clouded white like that.

Probably. 

Ah, shit. Hancock knows he’s gotta help the guy, he just isn’t unaware that it might come back to bite them. 

“Krios,” he speaks while his gaze combs the oppressive grey canopy, searching for the third and final member of their entourage. Only there is no need, because suddenly the stealthy drell is right beside him. Without a word the green skinned reptile humanoid lifts his arm and around the red leather of his sleeve, a console made entirely of orange light appears, shaping around his forearm and hand not unlike a gauntlet. Small holographic screens are projected into the air, and the apparently black pits of Thane’s large eyes follow each displayed calculation.

“It appears--”

“Oi there’s some slimy lizard monsters over here and I think they wanna make this guy dinner!” Sera had already scaled a tree and taken a better vantage point, though whether it had been strategic or restless is anyone’s guess. Within a moment she’s jumped down and is drawing her bow as she charges on ahead. 

“... yes, as Sera so eloquently described. Additionally, abnormal brain activity is present; he may be unable to see or hear us, and he may behave erratically.” The pair of them are moving with increasing swiftness as the sniper speaks. They follow behind Sera with a haste tempered slightly by caution. 

\---

Booker’s senses all turn viciously against him; he’s not sure if he can blame the hangover, the mysterious woods, or plain weak will when his knees start to buckle. Everything feels heavy, like he’s sinking into some horrible indescribable darkness. The only thing he sees is her, and just like the last time, he’s rather at ease with that much at least. Is this the end of whatever bizzare death dream he’s having? What exactly was the damn point of all this?

Suddenly the suffocating darkness enclosing him skips and stutters, and for a moment he can see desaturated trees and subtly threatening rock formations. That numbed feeling of alarm surges to the front of his mind, but before it can spark him into action, Booker sees the arrowhead lance mercilessly through the front of Elizabeth’s chest. Her expression doesn’t change but she wavers on her feet, and some dormant instinct lifts Booker’s arms by reflex, as if to catch her should she fall.

But when she does, her form dissolves into grainy weightless dust. 

He wishes the numbness would come back. 

Instead he’s back in the twisting tricky woods, on his knees and feeling like the world’s biggest fool. It is absolutely impossible to miss the crumpled corpse of another of the forest’s creatures laying dead in front of him. It’s another lizard of some kind, roughly the size of an attack dog and covered in toxic looking pink and purple scales. Its huge wide mouth gapes open and a tongue of truly nightmarish length unravels from inside. A few arrows stand proudly with their heads buried in the monster’s skull and the blood that oozes from the wounds is also a startling shade of purple.

And suddenly he is acutely aware that he is not alone.

Booker recognizes the first two from his stealthy observations; the absurdly petite blond woman, who he now notes sports a pair of pointed elven ears, and the man in the red coat. Well, maybe _man_ was an undue assumption. The life of a young soldier had shown Booker many things, including men women and children getting swallowed up by uncaring corrosive flame. This guy looked worse than any burn victim he had seen, alive or dead. Like the fire burnt the nose right off his smirking face.

It’s more than enough to inspire caution, but the man’s (?) easy amiable grin somewhat undercuts the flesh eating zombie vibe. Somehow. 

There’s a third person dressed in red leathers and Booker feels fine going ahead and assuming that one isn’t human at all. He appears to be some kind of reptile-man, with small curving spikes following the angular lines of his skull and webbing between the two middle digits of each hand. His sniper rifle is slung casually over his back, and it is not lost on Booker what strength that suggests. 

He only realizes his arms are still half extended when a rough yet warm hand with the texture of tanned hide takes his own and gruffly yanks him back onto his feet. Booker’s hangover seems like a happy memory as he feels as though glass shards are swirling inside his head. Once on his feet, the restless veteran yanks back his hand with a huff and narrows his eyes.

The crispy zombie responds with a raspy little chuckle, a careless smile and half a shrug. 

“It’s the blood, right? Hard to make a good first impression covered in gore,” yes Hancock, because it has absolutely nothing to do with you looking like the walking undead. 

“Sure,” is the sparsely sarcastic reply Booker provides, “I’m sure you clean up real nice.” Sarcasm is comfortable and familiar, even if he lingers in distrust. Hancock releases a crow of delighted laughter, but a restless rustle still manages to catch Sera’s pointed ears.

“Shhh!” her bow is drawn in an instant, her pale blue eyes full of intense resentment for whatever unknown threat may lurk close by. “Shut up F.P! I don’t wanna be eaten, today! Can we head back already? I’m done with trees and mud, I need a tavern yesterday.” 

Some semblance of sense finally works through Booker’s mind and he suddenly speaks up,

“Who are you people, what is this place?” he’s rather growly by default but anyone with an ear for real malice can tell there is no real venom to his words.

“Oh yeah, guess you don’t know what kinda shit you’ve stepped in, huh? All I can tell ya right now is I’m Hancock, the green guy is Krios, and the loudmouth is Sera. And this? Is The Lost Woods. You wanna make it outta here? You want answers? Stick with us.” Booker cannot help but be extra suspicious of the stranger’s good will as he adds, with a small shameless wink, “I’ll watch your back.”

“I’ll bet,” he replies with narrowed raw emerald eyes. Flirtation isn’t unfamiliar to him either, but this is hardly the time or place. The ghostly visions of Elizabeth linger in the back of his mind, and he can’t help but wonder what other kinds of fun fantastic beasts lurk in the trees.“...Where are you taking me?” he mutters with grumpy resignation. The trio in red seem like the safer bet, for now. 

“A place of safety; a walled village some ways to the north. Settlement Salem. There, we will be free of threats and able to properly explain,” the drell male speaks lowly, his deep velvet tones inviting one to listen. 

And while Booker can give himself countless reasons not to trust them, he is not unaware of the tiny warning wisps of fog beginning to creep across the ground. 

“Fine. But it don’t mean we’re friends, and it don’t mean I trust you.”

“That’s fair brother; ya can get into all kinds of trouble taking up with strangers,” Hancock seems to take every unfriendly response in stride as he slings his shotgun over his shoulders. “Now let’s get moving.”


	2. He remains unimpressed

“Purgatory?” his voice is rather flat and unimpressed; brows made severe by a constant scowl take a more drastic decline, creating a fiercer sneer of distaste. “That’s what all this is supposed to be?” Booker had little reflected on what this place _might_ be, but that wasn’t something that would have crossed his mind. And not because he didn’t believe such a place could exist. He simply thinks his soul would earn a harsher judgement, all things considered.

One act of redemption couldn’t possibly erase the enormity of his sins; he had never believed for a moment that it would. 

“Limbo, Purgatory, somethin’ along those lines.”

John Hancock makes a noncommittal gesture with his hand, mindless of the way it flashes this thick cracking yellow nails. Now that the perma-grumpy gruff gentleman has aclimitized himself, the sight of the very zombie-like individual doesn’t phase him in the least. After all, he had seen far uglier things at too young an age to flinch over a friendly face beneath savaged skin. In layman’s terms, Booker has no fucks left to give. 

“Way I was told, this is where they send those of us who don’t belong in the better or worse half of the afterlife. Too dark for The Light, too light for The Dark, ya feel me?” Hancock steals a moment to snatch something from his pocket and the next moment there’s a cigarette poised between his marred lips. He pats his coat down for a lighter once, and then again at a quicker speed. 

“Damn it,” he grumbles under his breath. Only the feral tip of his head reveals the direction of his black seamless gaze. “Krios? Sera?” hope rides his raspy warm imploring, yet to no avail.

When he’s met with a pair of shaking heads, Hancock turns his attentions upon Booker.

“Please tell me you got a light? Ain’t no way I’m walking my sober ass all the way back to Salem without something to liven up the trip,” despite himself, the habitually unfriendly man finds himself relating to the amiable zombie-man a little too well. Hell, what he wouldn’t give for a stiff drink. Too bad that’s not on the table…

And while it is Booker’s initial inclination to refuse, he is always a perilous sucker for dubious dealings. Raw ravenous reckless that knows no respite. His stubborn addictions (mental and physical) nag him and return his gaze, again and again, to the smoke poised so pretty between those strangely textured lips. 

“And if I do?” he grunts, absolutely no stranger to cut throat negotiations. Hancock’s brow (or rather, the muscle that should reasonably have an eyebrow) lifts and for a split second, the grinning ghoul begins to look impressed. 

“Guess I can’t ask a guy who’s not my friend for somethin’ for nothin’. There some terms I should know about?” Hancock’s tone exists in the ambiguous space between teasing and bargaining. 

“You got another cigarette?” and then, after a beat, “or some hard liquor?” the last bit is doused in light sarcasm, because Booker knows his luck is never quite _that_ good. And the moment he sees Hancock’s lighthearted gloating expression, he knows his own pessimism has not steered him wrong. 

“Afraid this is my last one, but I ain’t opposed to sharing,” offers the gracious ghoul, not without a hint of something foxy to his smile. The charisma he radiates seems to deftly defy his deformity and it is both perplexing and disorientating to the seasoned soldier. The offer faces his scathing scrutiny, but then the silver tongued son of a bitch has to go and say “and I got a bottle of bourbon back at the bar.”

Booker says nothing through a few tense moments of inner negotiation, which are absolutely pointless, and then the resigning man releases a gravelly huff and extends his hand towards the friendly stranger. Before Hancock can question him, a snap of his fingers lights a bright penny sized flame off the tip of his thumb.

“Well holy shit, ain’t that handy?” Hancock’s delight spikes his volume enough for the fierce elven woman to deal him a resounding smack to the back of the head.

“If you bring one more stupid monster on us I swear on Andraste’s tits Footpenis I will think of something mean and itchy to do to your fun bits,” she hisses, and while she leans forward to glower in Hancock’s face, Booker catches a glimpse of the gleaming bottles in her satchel. Glimmers of sharp edged light and fire dazzle his eyes beneath the glass bottles, and he wonders vaguely if they are anything like the Vigors he had come to know in Columbia. 

‘Constants, and Variables,’ the misty memory’s murmur reminds him. 

With his attention so ensnared, Booker doesn’t notice the ghoul’s hand until those oddly textured fingers draw him closer by the wrist. The bantam flame’s reflection shows eerily clear on the slate black of Hancock’s eyes as he leans in, and dips the tip of his cigarette into the flame. A deep searing inhale lights the cherry with an especially seductive gleam of red. When his hand lingers a few moments too long, and too casual slung about Booker’s wrist, the impatient man yanks his hand free with little more than the stale irritation of age and impatience born of staggering fatigue. It does absolutely nothing to dampen the ghoul’s resilient chill. 

“You tappin’ out on me sister?,” smoke slithers from his smirk, and from the dark cavern where his nose ought to be. It’s a tactful play, Booker observes, because Sera is suddenly struggling to meet his challenging stare through her own disgust. “Didn’t think ya had so little steam in ya,” Hancock smirks as he baits her, but the blonde bombshell responds with a fickle sigh.

“Oh hahaha funnyman, all clever with your sex jokes. I’d rather go have _actual_ sex on an _actual_ bed, than fake-flirt with your crispy wrinkled face.”

Hancock’s grin overflows with feral mirth, and his shoulders tremble only faintly from a few crows of his swallowed laughter.

“Alright, alright, fair enough,” he concedes, and somehow the ghoul’s grin adopts a rough affection, despite the young woman’s prickly composure. “Guess I can’t argue that,” he continues with notably less volume. Additionally, Booker is not unaware of the third member of the group, trailing soundlessly behind like a bloodstained dusk shadow. So far, the drell is the most difficult for the stubborn detective to get a read on, and that don’t sit overly well with Booker. For now, though? Probably better not to rock the boat.

“So we’re some place between Heaven and Hell?” he tries to get back on track, to grasp the most basic essence of what is happening. “That don’t explain much,” Booker continues, then suddenly snatching the loosely rolled smoke Hancock had been nursing with surprisingly a swift hand. He gives the other man a pointed stare of distaste, before stealing a few stinging inhales for himself. The thick flavourful smoke rolls across his tongue and for a few moments it feels strangely numb.

“Uhg, what needs explaining?,” Sera suddenly interjects with irritable, bored impatience. “It’s not as hard as you’re making it. You were a goody, you were a baddy, you died. Now we’re in the woods, and things want to kill us, again, which would be bloody and painful and who wants to die a _second_ time anyway? Some kind of messed up pain-kink, that is. Not the point; a bit more bloody trees and soon you’ll see the village full of other dead people who all need help, and some are still pricks. We’re supposed to be good and not die. What’s so complicated about that?” 

It takes a few moments of scattered processing for Booker to scavenge what he can from that odd collection of statements. One thing is ominously clear; they _are_ here, all of them, to be judged. Just like that wretched, heart wrenching illusion had told him. It would make sense, with the perilous circumstances designed to test the character of those sent here. He gathers there are folk in need of help, but not everyone could be trusted. That part at least, is just like every other damn place he’d ever been. No matter how many places he goes, folk don’t ever seem to change much. 

“... and Settlement Salem is safe?” is the bottom line the hard edged pessimist hopes for, but already doubts the likelihood of overflowing assurance. Again, his intuition proves correct as the lithe elven woman answers with an initial scoffing snort and a dramatic rolling of her large doll-like eyes.

“There’s a bar,” She responds after a few lapsed moments of quiet, as though that should be a fair enough compromise when safety is completely off the table. Booker can’t exactly bring himself to argue with her. Anything with walls had to be better than roaming the woods through those tangling tendrils of fog. 

“My bar,” Hancock adds with mock offense, as though such vital information should not under any circumstances be omitted. “Best one is all of Salem,” he continues once finding himself the target of a thin malachite stare. 

“The _only_ bar,” Sera interjects with a small mocking sneer. “Not really a contest is there?”

“Hey, hey, those things ain’t mutually exclusive,” Hancock deflects with a good-natured grin, and it seems to quietly infuriate the elven female that she can’t seem to ruffle his feathers. The trio in red make quite a strange team, but that seems superfluous to the studying detective because more importantly, they seem powerful and knowledgeable enough to keep each other (and hopefully by extension, him) alive. 

“ _You_ own the bar?” Booker all but drawls, finding himself already willing to believe his luck would follow exactly thusly. His addictions had led him into so many fun and fantastic situations, why wouldn’t the main source of booze be centered around the flirty zombie man? 

“You got it; I’m a ghoul of many, many talents and persuasions,” Hancock replies, sliding effortlessly between faintly fevered flirtation and friendly jest, “why, am I gonna be seeing a lot of ya? Could use a new best friend,” the amiable gladness in Hancock’s raspy voice abruptly puts the stranger to the woods on edge. No one gives something for nothing, not even the damn multiverse. 

“Let’s start at paying customer,” DeWitt derails the persistent flirtation, almost _because_ he feels like he could maybe, against his better judgement, and after many shared drinks, come to tolerate the ghoul’s presence. It’s hazardous to his instinctive solitude, but solitude in a place like this is rather more literally hazardous to his life. 

“And what’re you gonna pay me with, your fine company? I’m guessing you don’t have a pocket full of caps,” the grinning ghoul continues to disregard any serious malice or mocking; simply, he knows the stranger’s gotta be broke. The currency ain’t exactly obvious.

“... Caps?” There is a sinking feeling in Booker’s gut and it’s not because he doubts Hancock will get him liquored up; he just knows the other man likely won’t leave him alone to wallow. But what’s the alternative? Sobriety? Fuck that noise. 

“Bottlecaps, brother. Currency. It’s what we use around here-- there ain’t much in the way of bills and coins in terms of salvage. But don’t worry, I think I can afford to front ya a drink or two, if ya twist my arm a little.” 

“I get the feeling you’d enjoy yourself too much,” Booker grumbles while resigning himself to more time with Hancock as the vehicle to getting blissfully smashed. Something in him itches to be alone, but he can only bare with it for the moment. 

“Gentlemen, if you would please quiet yourselves,” suddenly the shadow silent drell is walking just behind and between them. Booker’s hand jumps instinctively to the holster of his trusty hand cannon (and he notes that Hancock also makes a small motion to grab his shotgun) but he realizes it is only the third stranger in red, and his expression dissolves into jagged annoyance. 

“Jesus Krios, I could have shot you,” Hancock’s attempt to scold is rather ruined by the ghoul’s blatant approval of such stylish stealth. 

“My apologies. The readings from my omnitool suggest we will not continue to outpace fog until we reach Salem. For now, may I suggest we seek proper refuge and establish a camp?” The drell’s calm is unbroken, and without the slightest flaw. If there exists a thing that could make the male’s velvet voice tremble, it is certainly not what lurks between the trees. 

“I don’t want to sleep on the smelly ground _again_!” Sera suddenly hollars, completely forgetting her own insistence on quiet. 

“Then perhaps you would like to take the first watch?” the reptilian man replies with nothing short of severe good manner, which only seems to spur the elven woman further into foul temper. 

“I’ll do it,” Booker grunts abruptly, sensing and smothering the argument before it happens. If he can’t be alone and he can’t be wasted, some breathing room will have to suffice. A sharp motion turns him from the trio in red. He won’t go far, not out of earshot. He’s still making the safer bet by traveling with them. But their easy companionship leaves a bad taste in his mouth. 

A few quiet hours of staring into the threatening darkness promises to lessen the sting.

So long as his ghosts stay in his head and out of the trees.

\--- 

He starts to feel the effects when he’s alone. At first, it’s almost imperceptible. A soft, murmuring restlessness that convinces him to move. Some remnant of ingrained training guides him without conscious thought. 

Booker stalks around the perimeter of the small camp like guard rotations had been beaten into him at too early an age; he warily eyes the hidden alchemist’s bottles concealed in the brush as he moves, careful not to misstep. One false move could set off a burst of flame or a shock of ice. Traps easily missed by clumsy, hungry beasts would be wasted if he was careless enough to trip one. Not like he’s unfamiliar with remembering the placement of landmines. 

Despite his disposition for grumbly gloom, Booker begins to feel little bits of his morose manner chip off and flake away. The edge dulls on his dire mood and suddenly small details begin to light beneath his heightened perception. And when the darkness remains still and uninteresting, his thoughts and observations shift restlessly upon his mysterious companions. 

The singular woman is passed out on a small swath of packed supplies, which she apparently finds preferable to the ground. The drell sits stoney still with his back against the diminutive stash and his large empty eyes are shut, though it’s unclear if he’s meditating, or asleep. 

Something in the tiny secret gleam of the campfire settles strangely upon certain scars adorning both the elven woman and the alien man.

The sniper’s scars circle the entirety of each wrist, while the archer’s curve cruelly down the center of her pointed ears, as though someone had tried to remove the extended tapered tips. The only thing alike about the marks is the odd way they gleam a little too brightly, suggesting both freshness and age in confusing contradiction. The longer he looks, the sharper Booker's unease becomes.  
“Hey there stranger, what’s a fine place like you doing in a… oh god damn it,” somehow, Hancock manages to exude charm in even the intoxicated fumbling of his teasing flirtation. Booker twists around with no more than the bare minimum of his customary scowl, which Hancock meets with a wolfish grin. His gravelly self deprecating chuckles are infuriatingly endearing. 

“Nice try,” Booker grunts, “better luck next time.” The other man’s face is a clusterfuck of deforming scars, but now that he knows what he’s looking for, Booker sees the odd unnatural scar tissue in a few lines on the amiable stranger’s face. Whatever had left those uniquely soft yet settled scars had struck Hancock horizontally across the face and cleaved through each eye along the way. A pair of vertical scars span downwards from his forehead to each cheek, creating crosses that ought to have gouged his eyes out. 

“Hey, it takes a lot’a skill to make failure look this good,” Hancock flawlessly recovers, whilst producing a canteen from his haggard coat and unwinding the cap.

“I got the weirdest feeling you might be thirsty,” he continues all too casually, and steals a lengthy sip for himself. 

Booker’s mouth suddenly feels like it’s packed with cotton, and all at once, his bemused wondering makes a little more sense as he remembers the puffs he had pillaged from Hancock's 'smoke'. He makes a wordless impatient gesture for the man in red to pass over the canteen, and the grinning ghoul easily obliges. Three massive gulps is all Booker can take before his senses catch up to him and he realizes his throat is on fire.

Still, he only coughs raggedly a few times before returning for a final, measured sip.

“Jesus, that ain’t water,” he grumbled with dull toothless resentment, which only serves to amuse the black eyed man all the more. 

“No it ain’t,” Hancock agrees, sounding impressed and almost a little affectionate. “Good to know you can keep down what you swallow,” he adds after a beat, smirking shamelessly as he saunters a few paces closer, and takes back his canteen. Booker bristles habitually; usually it’s a woman’s advances he’s facing, not that there’s a world of difference. Not many woman in the front line trenches, incidentally. 

“Does that kind of talk ever get you laid?” Booker replies flatly.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” the ghoul replies with a little boasting pride, which isn’t at all what Booker was expecting.

“... huh,” is all he can articulate after a few lapsed moments of quiet. And then, because he’d suddenly rather talk about anything else, Booker suddenly speaks up once more.

“Some of those scars of yours don’t look natural,” he begins with rather blunt suspicion. Perhaps subtlety suited some detectives, but never did it service Booker DeWitt. “The girl and the drell got ‘em too, like the ones through your eyes. Scars that look new and old at the same time and just don’t seem right. Got a feeling there's something to 'em, brother," he returns Hancock's friendly tag by means of showing his remaining distrust. Just because the guy had a silver tongue didn't mean Booker was ready to eat out of his hands. "There something you’re not telling me?

The ghoul’s expression answers before he speaks; Booker recognizes the dodgy averted gaze, and the look of something dark behind those featureless eyes that resists confinement into simple definable language

“There’s a lot you don’t know, sure…” Hancock begins uncertainty. Hell, where the actual fuck is he even supposed to start? “Some of it’s just gonna be easier to show ya. Salem ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, but it’s got the most people, and the best defense. You’re less likely to get eaten by monsters in your sleep. That don’t mean you drop your guard, feel me?” he pins Booker with a meaningful stare, his warm expression flickering unnervingly towards fatal seriousness.

“Hmph, you don’t have to tell me,” the wary veteran replies with the understanding of those who had suffered under a careless cruel crush of a boot heel. He doubts there’s anything here that could overshadow the things he’d already seen, anything that could hurt more than the pain he’d been running from for the last twenty odd years of his life. 

“... You wanted to know about the scars, right?” the ghoul in red continues with a note of unease. It doesn’t shock him that someone else in this place has seen enough to home that wary acceptance of the evils of men so easily, but it still feels unfair and unfortunate every single time. 

“Krios, Sera, and me, we’re what they call Hunters,” he begins to explain, finding more comfortable footing in the sharing of basic facts. “It’s our job to search the woods for supplies and strays, to keep the monsters back from the town and protect the wellbeing of the community. There are some other perks, but there’s also a kind of… call it, an initiation.”

“That’s not ominous at all,” DeWitt replies in a flat grumble, earning him a small humourless smirk from his companion.

“Exactly. Nothing to worry about,” Hancock returns the jest in good spirits, before shifting back into a more serious tone. “I won’t lie to ya brother it ain’t exactly easy… but far as I can tell, it’s the best way to lend a hand to everyone else in this half-way-to-hellhole. That’s why I do it.” 

The stranger’s apparent altruism makes the war wary man tense; instinct inclines him to doubt such pure motives, but something nagging in the back of his mind seems to insist that Hancock is saying nothing less than the truth. And somehow, that makes Booker feel the slightest bit of detested shame.

“And the scars?” he veers back to his original question, eager to grasp at something to take him away from the sudden faintly acidic self loathing. 

“A passing grade,” the ghoul replies sternly, and something in his expression is far more ominous than his severely deformed face. “You don’t wanna see the guys that come out the wrong side. It’s a hell of a gamble but hey… I guess you could say I got risk taking issues. Can’t say that hasn’t bitten me in the ass more than once.”

“...” a testy silence is the only reply for the friendly yet ferocious ex-mayor, which he accepts with casual grace as he steals a small dirty inhaler from the inside of his coat. He tosses it casually upwards and catches it on the way down before uncapping it with a flick of his thumb and breathing in the concentrated spray of chemicals. 

“Your shift is over, DeWitt. Go catch up on some much needed beauty sleep,” his scarred smile skews to one side, hanging crooked on his face as his eyes blink much too quickly and out of sync. “No amount of rest is gonna fix my ugly mug, I’ll keep watch.”

“I’ll rest my eyes when I damn well please,” Booker grumbles, crossing his arms and subtly stealing a more comfortable posture. It’s clear that he has no immediate plans of abandoning his space. 

“Aw, ain’t you sweet. I enjoy shootin’ the shit with you too, pretty boy.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a random fun piece of writing I'm working on sheerly to entertain a very dear friend, and well, myself I suppose, by extension LOL! Little bits of this plot have been floating around my head for a while now, so I'm just gonna see what comes of it! 
> 
> If anyone is interested to see more, kindly let me know so I will feel INSPIRED~
> 
> Thanks for taking the time to read my work! I hope you enjoyed it!


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